


In Transit

by Corvid_Knight



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Prompt: isolation, Promptober, this is just sheer angst so be aware, why did I write this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-27 05:48:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20943326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvid_Knight/pseuds/Corvid_Knight
Summary: You guess that there's no rule that says you have to sleep when you're in transit between jobs, but what else are you going to do? You don't dare leave your room—the crew won't hurt you, but you know that they think you're bad luck with your mismatched eyes and doubled horns, so obviously a psionic but not a useful one.There's absolutely no positive points to being a mechanic for Her Imperial Condescencion's fleet.





	In Transit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NKMLN](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NKMLN/gifts).

> this fic is gifted to NKMLN because Clorie is her fantroll, and Skothi was originally created for a semi specific scenario which is mentioned here! also because i love her.

Transit is the worst part of your job, but only if you don't think about the rest of it. Or maybe transit is the worst, period. You're not really sure—like, at least in the in-between times you're _mostly_ sure that your thoughts are your own and not extra electrical impulses from whatever helmsman you're hooked up to this time, and that's a good thing, right? Anything's better than trying to sort out your own desire for it to all be over from another psionic's desperate attempts to provoke you into giving them a strong enough jolt to fry the higher function centers in their brain. 

You can't really blame them, either. Being the mechanic is bad enough; you can't _imagine_ being hooked into a ship like that. Well, you can, just—

Nevermind.

You're supposed to be sleeping, anyway. Or something. You guess that there's no rule that says you have to sleep when you're in transit between jobs, but what else are you going to do? You don't dare leave your room—the crew won't hurt you, but you know that they think you're bad luck with your mismatched eyes and doubled horns, so obviously a psionic but not a _useful_ one. You know they'll look at you like _that_, and somehow that's worse than lying here on the floor in a heap made of all four of your uniforms and the towels you're supposed to use getting out of your 'coon. 

You don't sleep in the sopor anymore. It's probably something you can get in trouble for, but what are they going to do to you? Kill you? That'd be nice. Isolate you? You do that yourself. Torture you? Maybe, but it probably won't work—being exposed to the pain of hundreds of helmsmen over the four (five?) (ten?) (you don't know how many) sweeps since you left Alternia has messed up your ability to monitor your own pain levels; you don't think that they could do anything to you that you'd care about. 

They could make you sleep in the sopor, you guess. It'd take a lot of doing—you might not be a powerful enough psionic to power a ship, but you _are_ a psionic and you _can_ throw a highblood across the room with your mind. 

(Or you can throw her out the window.) 

Oh, that hurts. That thought hurts in a way that's less gold like your blood and more deep purple like hers, like seeing hers on the ground—you whimper and curl up tighter on yourself, ducking your head down until your horns scrape your knees. You know you shouldn't think about them, not when you're awake. When you're asleep it's okay sometimes, to think about Clorie and Nyawaa, your black and your red—when you're asleep it's almost like you're back with them. Like they're alive again. 

But no. You thought about them, so now you get to cry on the floor alone. And you _will_ be alone, for...how long has it been? Maybe the equivalent of three or four Alternian revolutions—your time sense has been wrecked for sweeps, but you remember looking up at the chromometer a while ago. You're going to assume it hasn't been _that_ long, so...you're halfway through this trip. 

Halfway to the next helmsman. 

You choke back a sob even though no one's going to hear you (and no one would come even if they did) curl up a little bit tighter, and squeeze your eyes shut. Maybe there's still a tiny chance that you'll be able to sleep and see the ghosts of your dead quadmates in your dreams.


End file.
